Of Blood and Smiles
by Nythtak
Summary: Random Kimbley one-shots, irregular updates. Chapter 1 - "Is this what insanity feels like? He wonders, as the ground buckles and twists beneath his palms, as the screams of the injured and dying fill his ears in a morbid symphony." Title suggestions and prompts welcome.
1. Smile

_Is this what insanity feels like? _He often wonders, as the ground buckles and twists beneath his palms, as the screams of the injured and dying fill his ears in a morbid symphony. His alchemy sparks in beams of red, crackling like electricity as it moves with all the viciousness of a wild animal, stalking its prey in the form of the fleeing Ishvalans. It snaps at their heels almost playfully, only to overtake them, bringing the surrounding buildings crashing down on their oh so fragile bodies.

It's a question he's been asking himself more frequently as of late. Before the war he'd never really taken the time to consider his own sanity, being far too occupied with his alchemy, developing and perfecting it. But here, surrounded by so much death with only his mind for company, it's all too easy to get lost in his musings.

He wonders what sanity even is. Oh, he knows the definition; to ability to think and act in a normal and reasonable way. But who decides what normal even is? The masses of sheep who are swayed by a few pretty words and a smile, who live their worthless lives in an endless monotony until their death? Or the ones who stand at the top, who look down upon their kingdom of depravity and lies and decide _all is well. _

He hears their whispers after all, ordinary soldier and alchemist alike. They call him a psychopath, a cold-blooded killer, say that the horrors of war have twisted his mind. And they sound so _righteous, _as if they are above him, that they are better than him. _Look at this man, who has become a monster, whilst I have not._

It makes him want to laugh, so he does, enjoying the way they flinch and look away, as if by glancing at him they too will contract his 'sickness'. They say he is insane; well, show him a sane man, and he will judge which one is lying to himself.

**.**


	2. Laugh

He doesn't think the way other people do. He never really has, or at least that's what he assumes. Always on the outskirts, never quite fitting in, never forming the bonds with other people that seem to be so important. Family and friends; the concepts are foreign to him. He has no family, unless you count the orphanage that raised him until he was old enough to be kicked out onto the streets. Friends? He hears people talking about how they'd give their lives for their friends, how they'd always be there for them, and he knows he'd never be able to do the same. He can't imagine ever caring about another person enough to sacrifice himself for them, and the idea of supporting someone without any benefit to himself makes him frown.

What is the point? Where is the logic in such loyalty, in risking yourself? He'd asked someone this, a long time ago, when he was still a young and (relatively) innocent child.

_Love, _they'd said.

The answer still confuses him. That was it? They'd do anything for a person, stand up for them and care for them, just because an emotion dictates they do so?

Whilst he understands such emotions as boredom and curiosity fuelling someone (both had been behind his interest in alchemy, acting as his drive to push past the many failures), love has always been somewhat illusive to him. He doesn't see its use, its purpose, so he decides he doesn't need it.

He wonders of other people can do that. Can just push aside emotions when they need to, can ignore them or eradicate them altogether. After all, what use was he if fear crippled him at every turn, or if he felt any sympathy for the hundreds of lives he extinguishes each day?

Oppositely, can they induce them so completely they're almost tangible? Amusement if so simple to feel, so _easy, _and it is much more fun to feel amused than it is any other emotion. It pushes away the cloud of boredom that so often plagued him, makes him feel _alive. _And even if it earns him frightened and disgusted looks when he laughs at the horror and destruction that is war, he decides that he finds it funny (and so he does).


	3. Guilt

He has never felt guilt.

He knows what it is, has read of it and heard it described. A sick feeling in your stomach, a jolt of remorse that strikes deep down to your very soul. A crack in a soldier's armour, the chink in his chain, the chip in his mask. It is powerful, unshakable, a feeling that never really leaves you, and if you let it, will consume you utterly.

But _he _has never felt it.

The first time he sees it (that he remembers and _understands_) he is six, and his teacher has just hit him _(not a first) _after he asked a question too many, the final straw on a stressed young woman's back_. _It sparks first in her eyes; realisation and horror and _howcouldIdothat? _She drops to her knees, cradles his face in her hands (it doesn't even hurt, not really. He's felt worse), and he ignores her words (_I'msorryI'msorryohgodareyouokaysorrysorry) _and instead watches her face. He sees the way the guilt overshadows her previous irritation with him, changes the way she sees him completely _(a hurt child, just a little boy_, _not the unnerving not-child who is too smart and cold and abnormal_)_. _It effects her far more than fear or affection could.

Why is that?

People feel guilt because they do something that goes against their own personal morals, as he understands it. A serial killer would not feel guilty for another murder, yet different man would be crushed beneath its weight. However, if that killer was to do something that went against their _own _set of ethics, twisted as they may happen to be, he too will be consumed.

People hold themselves to a certain standard, blinker themselves with guidelines and rules of what is _right _and _wrong. _And they do their best to follow this code, to adhere to it, and should they stray from this then they punish themselves with guilt. Why bother with torture when one can so effectively do so to themselves?

_People are..._he thinks, watching a soldier as he falls to his knees before a white-haired child slowly bleeding out from a bullet wound, staining the tan stone a bright crimson which captivates him for several long moments. He blinks and moves closer, the warm breeze brushing across his shoulders in the quiet evening air, coming to a stop beside the weeping soldier. His tears trace lines down his dusty face, the dirt doing little to hide the cracks that are spreading across his mind, a dam that is about to finally break and unleash its torrent on any in its way.

_People are odd creatures. _

Two gunshots cry out.


	4. Young

He is young and fresh and unused the sound of gunfire, of the shrieks of the dying and the splattering of blood. He stumbles through the sand, and tries to understand what glory could ever come from this, what victory could be reflected in the eyes of the corpses at his feet.

He is alone; after all, he is a state alchemist, no matter how recent, and he is expected to be able to take care of himself. That he is barely more than a boy, too young to drink _(too young to have lived),_ is of no consequence. He is a soldier, and this is his duty. That is what he has been told, what he has heard the haunted men whispering to themselves when they think no one can hear, whether a reassurance or a desperate plea for forgiveness. The truth is, he is not ready for war. You can't be ready for war, for the chaos and the danger and the _breaking-_

A spray off bullets bounces of the ground barely a metre away from him, and he flinches violently before ducking inside a nearby building. It is clearly abandoned, one wall collapsed and the roof mostly destroyed, but it will suffice for now. He takes in a deep breath and attempts to slow the rapid beating of his heart, scowling at his own fear. He knows that it's natural, and that he can't be expected to have nerves of steel so soon after arriving, but he is none the less annoyed at his own lack of control.

It has been a long time since he has felt true fear, and he would rather not be reminded off he feeling.

Crouching by the doorless entrance, he glances down at the tattoos on his palms. They reassure him, this reminder of the power he contains in the delicate strokes of ink, how easy it would be to destroy anything and anyone in his way if the need should arise. It is far more comforting then the press of his gun at his side; his ability does not make him invincible, but he is far form vulnerable.

His blocks the sounds of battle from his mind and focusses on that; on his alchemy. It has been the only thing he can rely on for as long as he can remember, the one thing that will never betray him or desert him, intentional or not. It may not be a person with emotions and thoughts _(though sometimes he swears-), _but it is the only thing he has found he can trust.

A bomb explodes and destroys the building wall, and he darts out before the hail of gunfire can catch him. He had a small team of soldiers with him when he first began, but all have since been killed or gone MIA. But they are not his concern, and he had never had any intention of working with them. Most soldiers bond with each other, the terrible experiences and thoughts that plagued them forging unbreakable ties. Not him, no, he has only found the disconnect growing stronger, his care for others (what little there was in the first place) lessening. Perhaps it is this - this war, this test of survival, this_ genocide_ - that will finally drive whatever humanity has has from him.

Taking in a deep lungful of smoky air, he sprints out into the middle of the street, trying to ignore the way his hands shake. They still though when he claps them together, and a perfect calm slips over his mind like a shield when he feels the first spark of alchemy. He can visualise the transmutation circle in his mind, and can't help but feel a rush of pride for what had taken him years to achieve, and was solely his.

He presses his palms to the ground, and the world around him explodes.

_He is a soldier, and this is his duty._


End file.
